"awry" poems
~
*O Painter
with thy own eye
would thee
paint me in mine own natural hue
prithee paint me as i am,
imperfections
and blemishes true
Load thy brush
with colors sundry
to maketh yond first pure sweep
across the ****** frieze,
fill'd with pangs of hunger.
paint me as i standeth
bethought, in deep
With mine own love and mine own desire,
blurring the edges unclean
with mine own regrets
and mine own mental gyre,
in mine own natural age,
of deep forest green
O Painter
Paint me sinister turquoise,
in lavender and maroon,
combine the amethyst and amber
blend the iceberg
and the indigo moon.
Paint me as i standeth,
prithee see with thy eye
a mistress in yond lady plight
Prithee paint me all i am
i cullionly
a mistress in all yond lady might
Paint me in the optimistic
silv'r of dawn,
but don’t miss the purple
to shade the bruise
of the bygone.
paint me in the sky blue journal
O Painter
Paint me as a unique template
smudge black white and grizzled
merging all the colors of thy palette.
col'r me a rainbow
in a rainy drizzle
Paint me tall so yond i standeth
loftier than any mountain
Paint me as a dram bird, delicate
with soft feathers silken
Paint me harmony, as a violin
so yond i can sing thy solitary tune
paint me as thy poetry
with song and melody
wrapp'd in a cocoon
O Painter
paint me as a dream yond rises
in did saturate colors
with a steady upbeat flight awry
tint, a fluttering
of a quite quaint butterfly
Portray me with endurance
imbue so bold and bright
doth not hesitate
to depict mine own mind
in profound fuchsia and white.
Useth the colors yond thee would borrow
Thy palette not yet exsufflicate
Paint mine own loss and mine own sorrow
in search of a shade so ******
Adorn mine own heart in glowing garnet
at which hour thee paint mine own love
add a true broken blue shade
of the cloud and the rain above;
Study mine own dry sorrow
in mine own soul
useth any shade thee plaited
soften the edges of control
in a tinge of xanthene.
O Painter
Prithee paint me
Mine own passion and mine own spirit
shall has't a crimson r'd hint
mine own remorse and mine own regret
shall reflect an ink stain print
Paint me in mine own eye so true
O Painter
but add a dash of courage too*
~
Dec 17, 2017
Dec 17, 2017 at 10:52 AM UTC
I saw a carving from Bethlehem that you had given my Nan,
She showed me a photograph of you, you were tall, with a golden tan.
The carving it was inscribed, 'with love from your brother Tom',
I knew my Nan had looked up to you, when all was said and done.
My Nan she was a little girl, when you were called away,
With her mother she waited eagerly for news, day, by day, by day.
In her eyes you were a hero who had gone off to the war,
Your smiling face, and uniform, were the last things that she saw.
She dreamt of the day that you would come back, striding through the gate,
she heard her mother pacing, though she didn't know your fate.
She heard her mother weeping but didn't want to know the reason why,
In her stomach she had a feeling that something was awry.
Then her mother sat her down and told her you were dead,
She told me she went dizzy, blood rushing to her head.
She told me she cried out your name, her heart it was pure broken,
The army sent a telegram, but it was really just a token.
You were just a boy of eighteen years when you were forced away,
I wonder how many mothers would cope if their sons left today.
They couldn't give you a grave, there was nothing left to bury,
You were blown to pieces in one hit, with bombs dropped in a flurry.
You only lasted for three months in your short, tough, army life,
My Nan died aged eighty-four, after a life of grief and strife,
She pined for you throughout those years and missed you everyday,
Her hero, her brother Tom, who left and went away.
She worried that when you fought, you longed for her and home
And worried that you were consumed with fear, and if that fear had grown.
She wondered if you had called out "Mum" and if your blood was swept by the tide,
how desperately she had wished, that she had been there, by your side.
The reason I know of you today, is that girl who became my Nan,
Who kept your memory alive as she always did back then,
I tell my sons about you Tom, I hope it's the right thing to do,
And I hope that they will love me as much, as my Nan had loved you.
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 2:11 PM UTC
To **** or not to **** that’s the ******* question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the bowels to suffer
The twists and turns of outrageous rumblings
Or to take action against a bellyful of gas,
And by farting pump one out? To strain, to bloat
No more; and by a mighty outburst we’ll end
The gut’s ache, and the thousand natural stenches
That the **** is heir to, 'tis a resolution
Right devoutly to be wish'd. To **** to ****
But perchance to **** there's the ******* problem;
For in that mighty **** of doom what turds may come,
When we have let the little beauty out from mortal tail,
Must give us pause; there's the danger
That makes calamity of the farter’s life;
For who would bear the sneers and mocks of men,
The neighbour’s shock, the lover’s curling lip,
The pangs of horrid stench, the ******* o’erflowing,
The leaking **** orifice, and the drips,
Impatient strainings that the tragic farter makes,
When he himself might sweet easance make
With a careful prodding finger? Who would a ******** wear,
Grunting and sweating with noisome convulsions,
But that the dread of solids after air-release,
The undiscover'd oozings, from whose delivery
No toilet visitor recovers, puzzles the will,
And makes us bear the bellyache we have
Than fly to others we know not of?
Thus indigestion does make cowards of us all;
And then the native heave of constipation
Is sicklied o'er with the pale fear of defecation;
And enterprises of both ******* and crapping
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of exciting toilet action.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 2:25 PM UTC
Of all the super heroes who exist
like legends, or monuments in entertainment,
or essential cultural commodities,
and
my favorite is Moon Knight.
Never met a good reception.
Never had a particularly well done story.
I like Moon Knight in theory;
a superhero with mental issues,
with friends who face the moral challenge
of playing into his insanity,
versus helping him stop serious crimes.
It seemed like a social commentary to me;
why do we hate dictators, but love superheroes?
How is it we understand absolute power corrupts
absolutely,
yet also think having an alien demigod semi-rule the planet
is really in the best interest of our species?
The design for Moon Knight has always been immaculate
to me; directly representing the fallibility of the hero,
diving into the night with a decadent radiance,
he wears all white, and declares he enjoys it-
for his enemies to know he's coming.
Does it make sense? No.
Much like the Punisher, Moon Knight doesn't struggle with
being morally black and white, but does struggle with
keeping that identity intact. His eyes glowing,
no face shown... just darkness.
All the emotion in the world broadcast through
two glowing orbs. sometimes red, sometimes green,
often white.
A visual hint to clouded mind of Moon Knight;
Marvel's true Batman gone awry. Gone insane.
A failed son who won't die.
Here's to it.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
I can't write...
I have a stash of twenty drafts, bearing a couple of lines each
I can't crack...
Every draft seem to have developed a shell I can't breach
I can't gather...
My thoughts so I could nurture these drafts to fruition
I can't think...
The clatter in my head meant only to deafen
I can't fathom...
What went right from what had gone completely awry
I can't find...
Much needed sanity to let soar and fly
I can't cry...
The tears I've beckoned for so very badly
I can't scream...
Only muffled gurgles of notions drowned at sea
I can't see...
The bigger picture...that consumed us both
I can't hear...
Except for the dreaded voice of reason that I loathe
I can't piece...
Together one decent little write
***I can't breathe...
I can't breathe...***I'm losing this fight
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 6:19 AM UTC
There’s no other choice but to wear them,
The drawer offered nothing but these.
An odd pair of socks might be quirky,
Odd sizes don’t normally please.
The one at my ankle was spotted,
The other was striped to the knee
The latter two sizes the smaller,
The former quite large by degree.
This mismatch I thought to keep secret
And cover the dissonant pair.
I chose from the wardrobe some trousers
And shoes, with considerable care.
My ruse would conceal the divergence
From prescribed social standards of dress
And none would be any the wiser
My discomfort I’d have to suppress.
Now, it’s harder to mask discomposure
When physical pain has attacked.
The small sock had cramped my toes tightly
That blood didn’t flow, was a fact.
My colleagues regarded me strangely
For they could see nothing amiss
But I could feel cold perspiration,
Anxiety I couldn’t dismiss.
It was then that I felt a strange itching,
The striped sock began to descend
And round my right ankle it wrinkled
And bulged at the trouser leg end.
Dismayed at my great consternation
But clueless to what was awry
My friends made comforting gestures
Need of which I could only deny.
The moral of this story’s transparent
Socks are always best worn as a pair
Their nature is in the relationship
Which provides a well-balanced air.
And take the trouble to remember
Be congruent in all that you do
For disparity will often bring discord
And that path, you’ll certainly rue.
Oct 11, 2009
Oct 11, 2009 at 6:43 AM UTC
You share your words, I cup my ears.
You shed your shell, I catch your tears.
When life goes awry, wisdom gives bliss.
I hold your face, forehead graced with kiss.
My words are calm, warm, and tranquil.
I'm gentle, understanding; tell me how you feel.
You're unburdened, cumbersome no more.
Uplifted you thank me and say your peace.
I'm alone again, but it's better now. I'm sure.
Wings flap; I close my eyes and feel the breeze.
Their once storms, now but a gust.
Shepard their dragons, I must.
Their dragons are slain, the fire is gone.
I shoulder their pain, my words drawn.
As they sleep, I sit and gaze at the stars.
I'm arrested, their beauty. Oh, how they glisten.
Frankly, I weep as I'm fighting their wars.
As dark as the night may fall, I'll always listen.
To whose ears may I profess?
Am I not too, simply a mess?
No one to be me, for the father.
Everyday, the man seems closer yet farther.
Who is there when it all seems so bad?
I know who I am, the man, my own dad.
Mar 7, 2019
Mar 7, 2019 at 5:01 PM UTC
the needle on record
catches a scratch
the music’s awry
happily writing a story
the inkwell
runs dry
interruption of
fairytale endings
where nobody dies
awaiting a biopsy
out on a limb
nowhere to hide
©2016janetaylor
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 6:45 AM UTC
I think about the face of a woman
and her smooth skin
soft lips
the curvature of the Earth is kin to her hips
I feel humanity suffering needlessly
beneath her cells
as I wander her valleys and sand-dune hills
she is the beach
the ocean
the calling of many gulls screaming for food and
I love her white *******
But she is sneaky
and cares for me
caressing is painful
I see it in my own eyes the next day
when the smudgy bruises flit across my reflection
But men understand
without either of us speaking a **** word
we drive
we shout
we catcall
we game
the music takes us and we run for days
doing nothing
anything
and i guess sometimes we ****
Succinct and supernatural
Brawn or brown skin or bright ideas gone awry
always a good day with the gang or the bros
I feel safer in the hoods
I want her to notice me, and to shyly skip over like she did last week
i want to kiss her neck and pull back
soon enough to catch her half-lidded gaze into the abyss behind me
I want to wear boxers and treat her to fancy dinners
But
I want to be her
I want taste a mustache
I want to be lifted overhead like a little sister
and brought back to the earth with sweet
exploration
Impossibility
I want women and men to be the same thing
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 1:44 AM UTC
I
pant at your sheer beauty
after the first sighting
in silence
I
crave and cradle your innocence
unnoticed
I
thirst to drink
from the source of your well
reluctantly
I
quiver a cowardice illusion
of the first move
from an awry smile of ignorance
I
steal your beauty and shred
Your body to pieces
unreachable you are torn from
a
silhouette desire
in
a damaged Magazine
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 3:14 PM UTC
Partly darkened and part in light
A time when the stars and sun shared the sky
Bear witness to two behemoths wielding might
Impending clash foreseen to go awry
Two trains of thoughts charging from opposite ends
Each bearing their own solid ideals
Their flags that flew with conflicting brands
Convictions they carry on beaten, weary wheels
Almost an eternity, the time is soon
Seconds lasted before they finally would meet
Feeling of dread like the cloud covered moon
With war cries of whistles, they would greet
No possible way that they could miss
War waged in steeled wills and forged metals
Anticipate the moment, their couplings would kiss
Unleashing a barrage of predestined reprisals
Sheer destruction as they ate into each other
All in tow haphazardly derailed
A clash made of brute strength and power
A result of when decisiveness had failed
All was motionless save for the light of day
The two lay dead; spent currencies in coal
Fire and smoke had emerged from the fray
Signifying that the two have met their goal
Their cargo now freed, engaging in petty skirmish
Lunging and wrestling as they fought for dominance
Determination to overwhelm; never to languish
Jousting fists fueled by pent-up vengeance
Almost at end this long drawn battle
Much like a storm to be patiently ridden out
When the last of the debris should settle
Then would be lifted the dusty veil of doubt
The sun has now risen revealing the aftermath
Shedding light on the devastation incurred
Dark thoughts possess the most potent of wraths
But nothing could beat the muscle of the written word
Looking back I've realised the harm I've caused
Found great solace in the dark words I've governed
Life still hurls; it can never be paused
Just dust yourself off for you're better off enlightened
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 5:14 AM UTC
Oh, the great and mighty Dragonfly.
How he moves like no other,
How he fights like no other,
With any shark who would apply.
With any shark who would apply,
That great and mighty Dragonfly
Would turn their angles right around.
Before the ring, he’d beat them down.
From every foe, he’s seen esteem.
Astonished by his skill and poise,
And in the minds of men and boys,
He is the idol, hero, dream.
Those who’ve yet to see him fight
Have also yet to see the light,
That new-age light that’s sparked late flames,
And also snuffed unworthy names.
They say that Mr. Dragonfly
Has piles and piles of letters wrapped.
Letters and letters of envy trapped,
As many as of praise awry.
Contrarily, in his own mind,
He thinks eventually they’ll find
The rumors should be flipped around
And pedestal be taken down.
For when arena lights are off
Away from drunken cheer and quaff
Away from praise aside of scoff
The hero has no golden crown.
He has no talent to be praised,
No superpower to amaze,
But just a body, flesh and bone,
A mirrored face he’s never known.
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 8:13 PM UTC
You think you know me.
I think I know you.
We know nothing
As we move forward
Slouched in our office chairs of despair
Some moving full throttle, the others stay still
Still
All in the same place
All at the same level
The illusion of movement
Competitiveness run amok and awry
An experiment gone wrong
An experiment in our endless longing, our search
Our eventual journey
As we seek greatness and perfection
While shattering the thought of it.
We have been taught to question
Questions bring greatness
Greatness is what we long for
Greatness has been subjugated
No longer an aspiration, but a trade
Not a product of inspiration
But a product of greed
Art is dead
Love is dead
All is dead
What once was an abstract concept
Is now concrete
And invisible
Nothing
A black hole
Constructed from the shattered hopes and dreams
Of millenials and those who felt like we do throughout history
What does "millenial" mean anyway?
In every context it encapsulates
Consumerism
Greed
Selfishness
Hypocrisy
Art is dead
Love is dead
All is dead
And we killed it
We dealt the death blow.
We lack heart
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with greatness
Greatness comes from accomplishments
Accomplishments come from knowledge
Knowledge comes from aspiration
Aspiration comes from inspiration
Inspiration...
comes from the metaphysical heart
The hollow men had no soul
and neither do we
We lean together
We do not embrace
We do not take the next steps
Only leaning
We lack what we need to see it through
We are incapable of maintaining relationships.
For our stamina is gone
In its place, divorce, infidelity,
shallowness
relationships based on looks and dreams
dreams of perfection
based on the wrong definition
We are the hollow men
We are hollow
We are... despairing
Despair
why would we despair?
if we did not care?
are we then hollow?
if we worry,
is that not out of concern?
is concern
not out of love?
does love...
not stem from the heart?
Sometimes I wonder
Can you still have a heart
If you have a mind in the way?
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 10:47 PM UTC
Twisting tendrils of realization
Run through my evermoving mind
Up unto the age of eighteen
I abhorred alliteration
The seemingly simple
Style showed, I thought
An easy way of writing
Whatever
Just finding fitting words
With meanings matching.
Untill I read The Raven
Poe penned what is
I think, the epitome
Of epic poems
All while writing, in a weirdly
Woven way
A story of love lost
Of wishing gone awry
So since then I sometimes
Try to match "my" master
And in writing wishes
With no reasonable rhyme
I uncover my understanding
Of my own simplistic stupidity
But beside that also, always,
Of how beautiful a language loved
Can be.
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 5:29 AM UTC
I am common.
seemingly feminine
but shoulders strong
as barbed-wire.
like a chicken I am
underdeveloped—my wings
weak and unable to
lift me into the air.
I am preoccupied
in self-identified war
with the 875 square foot
apartment and the pasta
that refuses to boil.
on my knees, I
crawl
reconciling rhyme
and reason for
suffering.
the world has gone awry,
I say to myself on an
afternoon bike ride
through wooded
pain, my face
a perfect plane for
scathing branches.
quick and easy blood
am I.
wretched and astonishing
is the rhetoric I
find in the hollow of
my rib.
I am common
but not so when
written by hand.
Aug 4, 2017
Aug 4, 2017 at 4:14 PM UTC
All are limitory, but each has her own
nuance of damage. The elite can dress and decent themselves,
are ambulant with a single stick, adroit
to read a book all through, or play the slow movements of
easy sonatas. (Yet, perhaps their very
carnal freedom is their spirit's bane: intelligent
of what has happened and why, they are obnoxious
to a glum beyond tears.) Then come those on wheels, the average
majority, who endure T.V. and, led by
lenient therapists, do community-singing, then
the loners, muttering in Limbo, and last
the terminally incompetent, as improvident,
unspeakable, impeccable as the plants
they parody. (Plants may sweat profusely but never
sully themselves.) One tie, though, unites them: all
appeared when the world, though much was awry there, was more
spacious, more comely to look at, it's Old Ones
with an audience and secular station. Then a child,
in dismay with Mamma, could refuge with Gran
to be revalued and told a story. As of now,
we all know what to expect, but their generation
is the first to fade like this, not at home but assigned
to a numbered frequent ward, stowed out of conscience
as unpopular luggage.
As I ride the subway
to spend half-an-hour with one, I revisage
who she was in the pomp and sumpture of her hey-day,
when week-end visits were a presumptive joy,
not a good work. Am I cold to wish for a speedy
painless dormition, pray, as I know she prays,
that God or Nature will abrupt her earthly function?
3.7k
The palais de justice of chambermaids
Tops the horizon with its colonnades.
If it were lost in Ubermenschlichkeit,
Perhaps our wretched state would soon come right.
For somehow the brave dicta of its kings
Make more awry our faulty human things.
3.5k
Oft, in the silence of the night,
When the lonely moon rides high,
When wintry winds are whistling,
And we hear the owl's shrill cry,
In the quiet, dusky chamber,
By the flickering firelight,
Rising up between two sleepers,
Comes a spirit all in white.
A winsome little ghost it is,
Rosy-cheeked, and bright of eye;
With yellow curls all breaking loose
From the small cap pushed awry.
Up it climbs among the pillows,
For the 'big dark' brings no dread,
And a baby's boundless fancy
Makes a kingdom of a bed.
A fearless little ghost it is;
Safe the night seems as the day;
The moon is but a gentle face,
And the sighing winds are gay.
The solitude is full of friends,
And the hour brings no regrets;
For, in this happy little soul,
Shines a sun that never sets.
A merry little ghost it is,
Dancing gayly by itself,
On the flowery counterpane,
Like a tricksy household elf;
Nodding to the fitful shadows,
As they flicker on the wall;
Talking to familiar pictures,
Mimicking the owl's shrill call.
A thoughtful little ghost if is;
And, when lonely gambols tire,
With chubby hands on chubby knees,
It sits winking at the fire.
Fancies innocent and lovely
Shine before those baby-eyes, -
Endless fields of dandelions,
Brooks, and birds, and butterflies.
A loving little ghost it is:
When crept into its nest,
Its hand on father's shoulder laid,
Its head on mother's breast,
It watches each familiar face,
With a tranquil, trusting eye;
And, like a sleepy little bird,
Sings its own soft lullaby.
Then those who feigned to sleep before,
Lest baby play till dawn,
Wake and watch their folded flower -
Little rose without a thorn.
And, in the silence of the night,
The hearts that love it most
Pray tenderly above its sleep,
'God bless our little ghost!'
3.5k
the girlie man of Australian politics
had the term coined just for him
the tough man Arnie Schwarzenegger
from California was thinking of him
Bill Shorten is a *****
when it comes to fiscal matters
that's why his statements
on the budget are all in tatters
soft approaches toward
spending will never do
the nation's finances are in need
of a tightening *****
the treasury office stats
don't mislead of go awry
a salient tale they tell
about a well running dry
there are no Jesus Christ figures
in Canberra to divide the loaves and fishes
a certain amount is in the nation's war chest
which must fulfill the people's many wishes
the Shorten alternative economic policy
has great sieve holes in it
the nation's well being under it
would be rendered unfit
at the end of the day
the taxpayer always pays
so the ledger should be in balance
without any stalling delays
fiscal responsibility
is good for a nation's health
marshmallow centered Shorten
has no interest in stock piling our wealth
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 10:20 PM UTC
Happy Birthday, Jesus.
Happy Christmas Day.
We have been bad, so now is the time
To bow our heads and pray.
Happy Birthday, Jesus.
What's it all about?
You made the cake and you made the wish,
But we blew the candles out.
Happy Birthday, Jesus.
Listen while we pray.
Please tell us why we can't get along
On this Christmas Day.
Happy Birthday, Jesus.
What's it all about?
You made the cake and you made the wish,
But we blew the candles out.
Happy Birthday, Jesus.
Though we've gone awry
Give us the strength and show us the way,
And we'll give it one more try.
Happy Birthday, Jesus.
What's it all about?
You made the cake and you made the wish,
But we blew the candles out.
Happy Birthday, Jesus.
Here's our gift to you:
It isn't gold or frankincense,
But a promise to be true.
Happy Birthday, Jesus.
What's it all about?
You made the cake and you made the wish,
But we blew the candles out.
Dec 24, 2019
Dec 24, 2019 at 2:42 PM UTC
Another sleepless night spent restlessly.
Another night unfamiliar with peace.
Another counting of the hours.
Another cup of chamomile tea.
Another dream gone awry.
Another swollen face and glued-shut eye.
Another head of hair resembling nest.
Another morning, trembling cold sweat.
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 4:36 AM UTC
Times before I've looked at my own insides,
Delicately moved my own private sword across the flesh
And watched as I proved to myself I was still alive
Despite what I felt inside, I knew what I saw.
Don't ever call me weak.
Days before I've stared into the eyes of my tormentor
And pretended nothing was awry though I knew
I knew he'd prove my bravery false later that night
Don't ever call me weak.
Before, I've dropped pills in my hand, watching them cascade as a waterfall
And let them slide down my throat by the hundreds
Knowing there would be no coming back after I laid down
Waiting for my gentle release
Don't ever call me weak.
Times before I've walked the halls of school,
hearing others complain but knowing that was my happy place
Because "home" held such worse torments
Don't ever call me weak.
Days before I've medicated, taking in more than should have been possible
Knowing that at any moment I could be taken
But never stopping, only going back for more
Don't ever call me weak.
Before, I've watched with hawk-eyes every morsel that passed my lips
Going days without sustenance
But knowing it was worth it in the end
Because I had gained control over my life, finally.
Don't ever call me weak.
Don't you ever ******* call me weak.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 10:24 PM UTC
Tsk tsk tossed
go out
Your suggestions.
Whisk whisk washed
flow south
Your directions.
Hiss hiss sorry
no time for
sage reflections.
Songs you sang will not be sung
Nor any tales of strength believed.
The brain embodied in such young
Must think it he first to perceive.
Ask every man
Who first made sparks?
From rocks to barks?
Blinding night and fooling fear?
Wholly gone ghost
Our first bright creature
He harnessed fire
Then disappeared.
Realizations when thought anew
Seem to skip from us awry.
So no Salutes
nor an ovation
For those who fostered
Us will be spied.
Gods truth your lips bespoke to youth
Yet still it's not their time to hear.
For these ears are full of magic
And your end rolls
Crushing near.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 3:49 PM UTC
something twas awry with the piper's flute
a most inconsistent rhyme it did oft play
twas very much like an out of tune lute
he thought his flute twas cleverly cute
but a listener did detect its disarray
something was awry with the piper's flute
of the tune's sound the listener did mute
as it bought to the ear such dismay
he thought his flute twas cleverly cute
those discordant notes you can refute
they've a rather off putting sort of splay
something twas awry with the piper's flute
at all times hearing must be acute
for the bearer of the instrument may stray
he thought his flute twas cleverly cute
whence tones don't uniformly salute
there's a cacophony in the aural bay
something twas awry with the piper's flute
twas very much like an out of tune lute
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 8:23 PM UTC